


April Showers

by FortinbrasFTW



Series: Tumblr Prompts - Dragon Age [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Public Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Spring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 01:29:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3631557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FortinbrasFTW/pseuds/FortinbrasFTW
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr Prompt: "Dorian/Iron Bull - Semi-public or somewhere they might be caught? xxx"</p><p>
  <i>“I like it out here, today,” Bull murmurs. Dorian feels the words rumble through his chest more than he hears them. “Everything smells like you.” The hand in his hair bends his head forward enough for him to kiss the back of his neck, right where the close cut eases into muscle. He does it just as he grinds his hips forward again. Dorian has to bite his lip firmly to stop from giving himself away. That was always the most infuriating part of him, how he somehow managed to do things impossibly tender and impossibly filthy all at once.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	April Showers

Spring came suddenly, as if during the night it had simply given winter one hard shake and knocked it free. Dorian was glad. Spring suited him. Everything fresh, with the smell of melted snow and breezes warm enough to tempt small buds free from the sunward sides of the yard. And, despite himself, the same weather was tempting smiles out of him.

He wasn’t known for being out and about but that was mostly the blasted cold’s fault, and now the gentle breezes and the raw smell to the earth seemed to pull him to it, and it wasn’t long before he was leaning against the ramparts on the south-side of the castle, gazing out over the mountains, watching winter throw down weapons and flee for greater heights.

“Climb out of your bookcase?”

Dorian doesn’t have to turn. The voice is all to familiar.

“It’s actually passably pleasant outside. For once.”

“Aren’t you a delicate thing,” Bull grins.

The voice is closer now. He feels hands settle on either side of where he’s leant. Bull’s more than big enough to wrap around him without even touching.

“Spring,” Dorian enunciates, “is the time for delicate things. We emerge, eager, spreading all of our magnificent petals. And it’s not my fault if boulders like you get jealous.”

“I think,” the body eases against his, “you like it when I get jealous.” He’s all solid warmth. Always so warm, even in the blasted winter, running about as dressed as some docks harlot.

Dorian tenses despite himself. He can’t help it. They’re not the only ones out enjoying the first warmth of the season. Laughing voices drift up from the courtyard and the lower fields, so many voices, so close at hand. He knows half of them likely suspect already (many seem ready to suspect him of anything), but there’s some things that have become instinct after so many years learning on hard lesson at a time, to smother sounds in shadows, to keep looks and gasps and snatches secreted in back rooms, sealed behind firmly locked doors.

He’s debating how best to slip out from under him when Bull gives his hips one shove forward. The warm, hard heat of his cock slides insistently against his backside and Dorian can’t help letting out quick gasp that he just manages to hide as a scolding hiss. “What on earth’s the matter with you?”

“What? You’re the only one who’s allowed to like springtime?”

“I was talking about  _flowers_ , gods where your mind will take anything!”

“For flowers there was a lot of talk of eager spreading.” He rolls his hips again, sharper this time, hungry, and Dorian can’t help the flutter behind his chest. He can feel the heat pooling low in his stomach already and his hips cant back on their own before he can stop them.

He practically hears Bull grin against his ear, and then his hands are moving, faster than Dorian’s ready for. One snatches the side of Dorian’s hip, holding him fast. The other slides, almost elegantly, for hands so dammed large, right up into his hair, and grips. Just tight enough for him to know it’s there.

“I like it out here, today,” Bull murmurs. Dorian feels the words rumble through his chest more than he hears them. “Everything smells like you.” The hand in his hair bends his head forward enough for him to kiss the back of his neck, right where the close cut eases into muscle. He does it just as he grinds his hips forward again. Dorian has to bite his lip firmly to stop from giving himself away. That was always the most infuriating part of him, how he somehow managed to do things impossibly tender and impossibly filthy all at once.

“You can’t tell me this weather doesn’t get you ready to unwind,” Bull’s hand is easing from his hip, slipping closer to home.

Dorian catches his wrist firmly. “Just wait, we’ll, damn— it’s hardly two minutes from your bloody nest of a room.” His voice sounds strained despite himself.

“I know,” Bull says simply, “I was leaning on the doorframe staring at your ass for ten minutes when you got up here. I was about to just have a good tug,” he urges his hips for emphasis and Dorian swallows, “watching you, out here, but then I got greedy.”

“You’re always greedy.”

“Mmm no,” Bull insists. Dorian’s hand has gone loose on his wrist and he takes advantage, sliding his full warm palm over him, “compared to your spoiled ass, I’m a fucking chantry sister.” He gives him a solid squeeze. “Not that I mind.” Dorian can feel his own lip tight between his teeth, feels how he’s fallen back against his chest without even realizing it. “For a vint brat, you’re damn fun to spoil.”

“Fuck—“ Dorian hisses as Bull’s hand slides  _exactly_  the way he knows makes his knees stop functioning. “Gods, just — it’s too open. They’ll, ah—“ Bull’s hand’s tightens in his hair. “For Andraste’s sake someone could seeEe—“ He looses control of the vowel a bit when Bull opens his mouth on the side of his neck.

“They might. They might not. Isn’t that interesting?”

“No,” Dorian tries to make his voice sound steady, “it’s bloody indecent.”

“Funny,” Bull rumbles, hand rolling _just_  right in a way that almost has Dorian doubling over to buck right back into it. “For something so ‘indecent’ it sure has you tightened right up.”

Dorian can’t say anything. Bull’s being stubborn, and thick as a rock, and  _gods_  he could have chosen a better metaphor, but there’s not denying that every little bit of him’s sparking with tension, that the rough of the stones compared with the worn-soft callouses of Bull’s hands is making his mouth dry. And the sun. The sun feels so perfect, so full and fresh pushing against his face.

Bull’s touches slow. For a moment. His voice is lower. Always so low when he asks the question. And he asks every bloody time. “Do you want to stop?” He asks even though the answer is always, _always_  the same.

“Don’t you dare,” Dorian breathes.

And that does it. He feels Bull’s arm wrap around his waist, lifting him as easily as if he were a sack of bloody spindle weed. Dorian can’t help letting out a soft sound of shock, but it shoves out as a gasp as soon as Bull lands him against the stone-wall that corners the ramparts, spinning him to face him in the same motion.

Dorian gets half a second to feel a flutter of fear as he realizes how close he is at this height to tumbling straight over the side before Bull’s hips snap right into his again and his mind washes out: all worry and fear replaced for a searing second with nothing but grind and catch and  _gods_ —

“Don’t bloody drop me,” he hisses.

Bull catches his chin between his thumb and forefinger, looking him dead in the eyes for the first time since they started. “I won’t.” He kisses him. Hard. And deep.

Dorian lets the kiss wash over him, wiping out all other thought, all other fear. He falls into it, like dropping backwards into water and letting yourself sink all the way down. The lust pours in, searing and fresh, doing things all on it’s own: rolling his hips in tight sharp circles that have Bull breathing hard against his tongue, snaking one hand around a horn for purchase with another flat against the stone wall to shove just as hard as he can back. And Bull has him, he couldn’t be afraid of falling now if he tried. Both Bull’s hands are firm on his ass, one thumb tracing it’s way down, urging against him through his clothes in a way that makes Dorian gasp away from the kiss, forehead landing hard on Bull’s shoulder.

He smells raw, like the earth coming to life in the courtyard down below. He smells like spring.

Bull drops him. Suddenly. Thankfully he still has a hand on his waist or Dorian’s sure he would have collapsed altogether.

“Buckles,” Bull rasps.

Dorian tries to make his brain work. The heat is still wrapping around him, making his thoughts thick and lazy and quite single minded. “Gods—“ he swears, realizing what he’s getting at. His blood apparel is always a little too complex for Bull’s hands and the last time he tried he ripped off at least six buckles that took Dorian two weeks to get properly repaired.

But in this state Dorian’s hands aren’t working exactly deftly either. He snatches one buckle free, then another. Bull’s staring at him like he’s about to eat him alive.

Dorian smiles, sharp and hazy with lust. “So polite. You don’t have to wait for me to start.”

Bull’s eyes widen for moment in surprise and then the same grin spreads across his worn cheeks. He plants one hand firmly by Dorians head and works himself out of his breeches in half a moment with his other.

Dorian can’t help staring, watching as Bull’s practiced grip works the full length and girth of him with easy firm strokes. His breath feels short against Dorian’s shoulder, and that and damn sound of his cock sliding in and out of his meaty palm has Dorian’s tongue going heavy and slack in his mouth, his own cock urging painfully behind his complicated trousers, hands panicking at the buckles and maybe snapping the last two a little too firmly.

He snatches his hand around Bulls, slipping his fingers between his thicker ones to feel the raw heat of him against his skin. He squeezes firmly and Bull lets out a low approving growl.

He shoves Dorian quickly against the wall, free hand slipping right into his loosened trousers, sliding them down just enough. It only takes a moment for Bull to wrap his full palm around him. Dorian gasps, loudly. Too loudly he realizes, cock jumping at the thought. The voice are still there, all so close, just meters down below them. And gods what the hell as he thinking? They were just here, _right here_ , anyone who took a fancy might walk right up the stairs, turn a corner and—

Bull’s other hand finds him, slick, wet, and shoving right in.

Dorian opens his mouth to moan and Bull catches the sound on his tongue, kissing him hard, working his tongue against his as he works his finger, no, fingers, up into him, twisting them just right and—

“Fuck—!” Dorian hisses, fingers turning to claws on Bull’s shoulders. The bastard. He was always so damn clever with his salves and his ointments, always carrying some in his pockets and managing to slick everything, _everything_, before Dorian even had time to notice.

“Shh, shh,” Bull whispers against his ear with a smile, kissing him lightly on his forehead, exactly as he shoves  _just_  right, and gods does that only make it worse.

Dorian’s gone, utterly gone. He doesn’t care who the fuck hears him. The whole bloody inquisition could march up the steps and start applauding and throwing flowers for all he cares.

“What’s that?” Bull asks.

Dorian realizes he must have been muttering something. He doesn’t have time to remember what. He gets one hand around Bull’s cock, snatches his lip in his teeth and tugs with just enough twist to make the bastard groan hard against him. And that’s all it takes.

Bull’s hands hurry, lifting him right up off the flagstones, wet fingers tracing quickly, shoving away the straps of leather and folds of fine fabric, until the slick head of his cock is urging along him.

Dorian throws his head back, knocking it like an idiot rather hard against the stone wall behind them, but the feeling doesn’t last long. Bull’s hands tighten on his hips. Warning. Just like they always do, and slowly, firmly, he shoves into him.

Dorian cries out and Bull’s hand only manages to shove over his mouth half a second too late. The thickness of his fingers slips between Dorian’s open lips and Dorian swears in rushed gasps into them, shutting his eyes tight against the impossible pressure, tightening his thighs as firmly as he dares on the meat of Bull’s waist.

Bull’s hardly all the way in before Dorian’s nodding in a frantic way, words falling in muttered breathes from his lips, hips starting to cant as far as they can. “Go, gods just bloody yes,  _yes_ —“

Bull lets out a huffed sound and takes his hint. He shoves Dorian hard back against the wall, pace starting, building, thrumming through him wave after wave.

It’s a wash of pressure and pleasure and just enough pain. The words scramble in Dorian’s throat, knuckles tight and pained against the stone wall behind him. Bull grunts, once, then again, firmer, breath hard in his chest, pace building from rushed to frantic. And gods it’s fast. It’s so fast, and exactly, exactly right. Dorian’s hands start to move, faltering, snatching towards his own strained cock, desperate and pressed between them. Bull catches his wrist. One hand pins both of Dorian’s above his head, and the other wraps tight around his cock, working it in hard punishing strokes that match the pace he’s set and Dorian’s spent in an instant.

The strangled sound drags out of him all at once, loud and broken as he feels himself spill hot and thick across Bull’s fist, between his half worn clothes, Bull’s bare stomach.

Dorian’s not sure if it’s the thoughtless sound or the orgasm that does it but Bull’s crashing into his own right after him. His hands snap to Dorian’s hips, driving him up and down with a suddenly ferocity as he gasps raw and staggered against the side of his throat, pace going from frantic to jagged to broken, and finally, as the heat pours into him, a slow, single, slide.

Dorian tries to breathe steadily. The sound of the day starts to leak in again, and shockingly enough, it hasn’t changed much. There’s no stunned faces staring at them from the steps, no dead silence in the courtyard. Just the sun, warm on his face, and Bull, delicately easing himself back.

He grins at Dorian. “Not so bad?”

Dorian can’t help laughing, a real laugh, that feels solid and pleasant in his chest. “No, not so bad. I don’t think they heard me.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it. They probably thought it was a bird. When you come you sound just like a fucking seagull.”

Dorian smacks him. Hard.

 


End file.
